


No Green Carnations

by satincolt



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Arranged Marriage, Aziraphale/Gabriel but not for real, Bearding, Beelzebub is pretty chill, Crowley/Beelzebub but not for real, F/F, Focus on the ineffable wives, Gabriel is a good guy, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Ineffable Wives (Good Omens), M/M, Marriage, They're bearding each other bc repressed Victorian society
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 22:04:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20571647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satincolt/pseuds/satincolt
Summary: In one month, the upper echelons of London society see the two very highly anticipated and high-profile weddings of Lord Gabriel Archstone to Lady Aziraphale Fell, and of Lord Beecher Elzeb to Lady Antonia Crowley.  Talked about as the most picture-perfect ceremonies and the most powerful, aristocratic couples, nobody outside of the four knows the true purpose of these arranged marriages.  It's not to gain power or social standing, it's not for love or stability, it's to hide the dark secret that all four of them are homosexual.





	No Green Carnations

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Welcome to this impulsive AU that I've been thinking about in one capacity or the other for years and finally decided to write bc snafutype mentioned wanting Victorian lesbians and I can't deny them that. BIG OLE DISCLAIMER that I did _not_ extensively research this for historical accuracy, so this is an evocation of Victorian England rather than an accurate description of it. I'm working off my own patchwork (and pop-culture-informed) knowledge of the time period roughly between 1850-1890, so don't take me to task on historical accuracy lol this was never meant to be accurate. Just lesbians angsting over arranged marriages to their friends to hide the fact that they're gay for each other!

Ladies Fell and Crowley step out of the carriage one after the other, hopping over the puddle in the gutter before releasing their skirts, straightening and fluffing them, and heading into the dressmaker’s shop. “You didn’t go with the French style, did you?” Lady Crowley asks as the door closes behind them. Lady Fell gives her a sidelong glance and unbuttons the wrist escapes of her gloves.

“And what if I did?” she asks archly.

“Oh, a—” Lady Crowley starts, then stops herself and rolls her eyes, pointedly not looking at the translucent exposed skin of Lady Fell’s delicate wrists. She can’t say what she so desperately wants to since they’re in public. “You’ll look too lovely. You’ll send all the women of the society to their fainting couches in fits of jealousy.”

“Careful, my dear, or one might get the idea that _you _are jealous,” Lady Fell says teasingly. Lady Crowley gives her a tight-lipped smile.

“Only that you are marrying first, so that my ceremony must stand in your shadow,” she says in a much more subdued tone. The shopkeeper seems to realize the ladies are waiting for him at that point and he rushes over, instantly recognizing the pair.

“Ah, my loveliest ladies, you are here for your fittings!” Newton Pulsifer says with a flourish. The ladies smile at him.

“Lady Fell will go first,” Lady Crowley defers.

“Of course, right this way!” Newton gestures towards the back, where an Oriental silk screen divides the shop and affords privacy to ladies during fittings. The three slip behind the screen and Newton’s wife (and assistant) Anathema brings out Lady Fell’s imported-from-France wedding dress. It’s a cream silk confection with pearl buttons down the back, trimmed everywhere with puffs of lace and pleats.

“This is one of the first dresses we have received that’s been made by _machine,” _Newton says excitedly and a bit nervously, as if unsure how the ladies will react to this newfangled revelation. “Anathema is taking a class to learn how to use one!”

“That’s very progressive,” Lady Crowley says with polite disinterest. Anathema gestures to Newton and he takes his cue to leave, so that Lady Fell can begin disrobing and put the wedding dress in all its many parts. Lady Crowley watches the proceedings as Anathema does up all the pearls along Lady Fell’s spine. She tilts her head longingly to the side, aching to know what it would feel like to be the one to do up those buttons—or better yet, to undo those buttons.

“Antonia?” The sound of Lady Fell’s voice snaps Lady Crowley out of her inappropriate daydreams. Her eyes refocus on the woman in front of her and her breath stops in her chest. Lady Fell looks like an angel descended from the Heavens. When she moves, thousands of tiny gold spangles glitter across the heavily embroidered bodice, cascading down the puffed skirts that flare over Lady Fell’s voluptuous hips. The bottoms of the skirts are trimmed with rows of ruffles upon ruffles that swish against each other sensuously when she takes a few steps forwards. “Antonia, dear?”

“Oh,” Lady Crowley sucks in a startled breath, realizing she’s been staring for far longer than is warranted. “You look like a vision, Phalia.”

“I’d so hoped you’d say that,” Lady Fell says breathlessly, a huge smile breaking out across her face. “I think it’s perfect.”

Lady Crowley can only nod dumbly, not trusting her mouth to not say anything untoward in front of other people. Newton comes back around the silk screen at this point and sets about fussing with and pinning the dress to make the fit even more perfect. Lady Fell stands patiently for it, particularly when Newton drapes the pearl-speckled silk veil over her face and takes a step back, presenting Lady Fell to Lady Crowley once more. Her heart pangs fiercely in her chest, desire and longing and pain and sadness all at once. She nods once more, fanning herself with one gloved hand in lieu of providing a real answer. The soft look in Lady Fell’s eyes behind her veil tells Lady Crowley that she understands.

Once Lady Fell’s dress is fitted and she’s redressed in her beige tartan day dress, Newton steps out again and it’s Lady Crowley’s turn to try on her wedding dress. She quickly strips down to her chemise and petticoats while Anathema brings out her equally fashion-forward white English made gown in the style of Queen Victoria. It has a false neckline—a very risqué one, at that, which would bare nearly the entirety of Lady Crowley’s décolletage if it were real—but layers of lace cover all the skin that needs to be covered without sacrificing bold fashion choices. As Anathema bends over the buttons on the back of Lady Crowley’s gown, pushing her long beaded train out of the way with one foot, Lady Crowley looks over her shoulder and catches Lady Fell’s eye.

Her lady friend’s eyes are shining with tears in the bright lights of the shop, sparkling as much as the crystal beads hand-sewn in paisley patterns to Lady Crowley’s gown. Anathema finishes with the buttons and fetches the veil, pinning it into Lady Crowley’s hair and stepping back. She looks between the two women with scrutiny, then quietly excuses herself. “Newton will be along in a few minutes, he has something to attend to at the moment. I hope you ladies don’t mind waiting terribly?”

“Not at all,” Lady Crowley says, sounding far more composed than she feels. Anathema nods and steps around the other side of the screen. The ladies stare at each other a moment longer, tension and longing and heartbreak a near-palpable frisson in the air between them. 

“Antonia,” Lady Fell breathes, her tears finally spilling over in two tracks down her powdered cheeks.

“Phalia—_Aziraphale,” _Lady Crowley murmurs in answer, holding her hands out. Lady Fell crosses the space between them in three swift strides and the rustle of skirts, her much warmer hands sliding into Lady Crowley’s cool grip.

“My love, I would give anything in the world to be the one to draw back your veil at the altar and kiss you upon your rosebud lips,” Lady Fell confesses in a whisper, looking up into Lady Crowley’s face from her stead several inches lower than the fitting dais.

Lady Crowley swallows thickly. “Then let us be married here, my angel, in secret where none but us can see, for it doesn’t matter if the whole world knows not that I love you with every fiber of my soul, for I know it to be true, and you know it to be true, too.”

Trembling, Lady Crowley takes a step backwards and Lady Fell steps up onto the dais with her, chests pressed flush together. Slowly, Lady Fell grasps the edges of the bejeweled veil in her fingertips and raises it, the silk dancing across Lady Crowley’s cheeks and nose like the barest touch of a dove’s wings. Lady Fell leans in, her head tilted ever so slightly, her eyes big and dark and blue and lidded, eyebrows raised as if in pleading, plump pink lips parted invitingly. Lady Crowley feels the warmth of her breath against her own lips, the weight of Lady Fell’s arms resting against her shoulders, the gentle pressure of Lady Fell’s body married to her own, and leans in to feel the softest and sweetest touch of her lover’s lips against hers.

The fleeting kiss lasts no more than a heartbeat before Lady Fell is drawing away, regret written on every feature. “It’s too public here,” she says softly with a voice that sounds as broken as her heart. Lady Crowley nods mutely, dabbing at her eyes and replacing her veil before Anathema slides back around the screen.

“Sorry about the delay, ladies, Newton will be back in just a moment,” she says steadily.

“Much appreciated,” Lady Fell says in a somewhat choked voice that Anathema graciously overlooks. Newton bustles back in and fits and pins Lady Crowley’s dress, then bustles back out to allow her to change again. All three women step out from behind the screen, and with that the fitting is done. The ladies thank the dressmaker and his assistant wife for their time and make their way back outside to their waiting carriage to take them back to their houses.

Inside the carriage, Lady Fell draws the curtains on the windows and slouches into her seat with a sigh. Her foot nudges up against Lady Crowley’s ankle through their petticoats, making Lady Crowley look up at her. Lady Fell gives her a small smile.

“I adore you, Antonia,” Aziraphale says quietly. Antonia returns her small smile.

“And I you, Phalia.”

“What’s troubling you, my love?” Aziraphale asks, sitting up and leaning across the small gap between their knees to cup Antonia’s hands in her own.

“This whole marriage business,” Antonia says with an edge to her voice. “It’s—I wish—just—” she cuts herself off with a frustrated noise. “I want to be marrying _you, _Phalia. Not Beecher. It seems to me a pointless exercise in torture and longing for us to be marrying whilst our lovers sit in the audience, forced to watch, and unable to object and express their feelings.”

Aziraphale sighs. She moves one hand to cup Antonia’s cheek, stroking her gloved thumb over her lover’s sharp cheekbone. “I know,” she says soothingly. “I feel your heartbreak, my dear. My heart aches too. And the ceremonies will be painful, no doubt, but it’s for the best for all four of us. Once we are all safely ensconced in our marriages, no-one can interrogate us any longer or accuse us of being spinsters or our soon-to-be-husbands of being permanent bachelors. No-one will be any the wiser when we switch spouses to be with our true loves.”

Antonia nods grudgingly. “I just don’t see why I can’t marry you, and Beecher can’t marry Gabriel. So what if we lived together as lovers? Damn the rest of those chattering society gossips, damn them all!” she spits.

“It’s for our reputations,” Aziraphale says, trying to make Antonia understand but knowing it’s useless. “I know you think little of it, but that sort of thing is important in society and we all have quite good ones—I think you’d be loath to experience life without a good one.”

“Bugger our bloody reputations,” Antonia grumbles petulantly, but she makes no further argument. Aziraphale pats her cheek.

“There’s a love. Though, I would rather bugger you,” she adds with a sly smile. Antonia’s eyes snap to hers, dark and willing and questioning.

“Well, we _did _just marry,” she says slowly. “It seems fitting we should consummate our marriage.”

“Only fitting,” Aziraphale agrees, her breath stuttering as Antonia turns her face to press a kiss to Aziraphale’s gloved palm.

The next time Lady Crowley sees Lady Fell, it is on the day of Lady Fell’s wedding. Lady Crowley knew what to expect from the dress, but the sight still takes her breath away. The wedding is lavish in every sense of the word as the Archstone family likes to revel in excess. The ceremony is staged inside the cathedral with key members of society in attendance, the pews packed with fashionable families in fashionable clothes. Lady Crowley is seated with her family in the front few rows, hands clutching so tightly at her skirts she’s wrinkled the fabric and lost feeling in her fingers.

When Lady Fell was led down the aisle in her beautiful, elaborate, spangled wedding gown, she had glanced sideways into the pews and caught Lady Crowley’s eye for no more than a moment, but that moment was enough to speak her apologies and her love. Lady Crowley had arrested the sob in her chest, passing it off as a hiccup, setting her jaw firmly as Lady Fell turned her attention back to the altar, where Lord Gabriel Archstone stood with the deacon.

Now, Lady Crowley struggles to pay attention to the vows as her mind insists on taking a holiday and imagining her standing up at the altar with her lover, speaking those vows to her, instead of being forced to watch her lover wed another and knowing that in two weeks’ time, she will be forced to marry another while her lover watches helplessly. She averts her eyes when Lord Archstone kisses his new lady wife. Her mother gives her a questioning glance but Lady Crowley ignores it.

Afterwards, at the dinner, Lady Crowley finds herself seated with her betrothed, Lord Beecher Elzeb, on her left and her mother on her right. Beecher is quiet at the table, his eyes focused only on the plate in front of him. Lady Crowley understands why. Under the edge of the tablecloth, she surreptitiously slides her hand into his grip and squeezes his hand. He turns his head enough to catch her gaze out of the corner of his eye, giving her a small smile. She returns it, blinking her eyes dry.

“It’s hard,” she whispers, glancing around quickly to make sure all eager ears are occupied with other conversations. Beecher nods.

“It’ll be our turn, soon,” Beecher says, his voice slightly hoarse. 

“And then it’ll be all over, and everyone will leave us alone, and…” Antonia trails off as Beecher squeezes her hand again.

“Your tongue is going to get us both in trouble,” he warns, but not unkindly.

“Phalia said much the same the other week,” Antonia grumbles, and as much as she wants to continue this conversation, she knows this is possibly the most dangerous venue possible for such a chat.

After a pause, Beecher asks, “how am I supposed to smile and congratulate them when I’m miserable and I know they are just as miserable?”

Antonia grunts, lacking an appropriate answer because the same question is on her mind at that moment. She dares to look up from her plate, towards the head of the table where Lord and Lady Archstone are seated. They’re both doing a very good job of looking suitably overjoyed for a newlywed couple of high standing. They’re both also studiously avoiding looking at the area where Antonia and Beecher are seated. Finally, the staff begins to serve food and wine and Antonia dives headfirst into her drink, not at all bothered with how it might appear to anyone else. She’s thoroughly determined to drink her sorrows. Beecher is close behind her, but out of the pair he always was slightly more reserved, and so as the night grows longer and Antonia grows drunker, he keeps a hand on her at all times, ready to rein her in bodily if she starts saying something she’s not supposed to.

For the most part, Antonia does a very good job of restraining herself. It all goes downhill, though, when the guests begin dancing. The newlyweds have the first dance and Antonia watches them with open longing in her eyes, slouched over in her chair as much as her corset will allow, and once others take to the dancefloor and begin whirling about, she stands and forces a reluctant Beecher to dance with her. She leads the pair of them closer through the rotating throng of couples until they spiral in next to the Archstones.

“You should dance with me,” Antonia slurs on one revolution, tipping her head backwards to address Lady Archstone, who, for her part, looks equally delighted and embarrassed by the prospect.

“Antonia, how much have you had to drink?” she asks.

“Is she alright?” Lord Archstone asks Beecher. Then he comes close enough to smell the wine on Beecher too and he asks with more alarm, “are _you _alright?”

Beecher grimaces in response, tightening his grip on Antonia as she stumbles. “As alright as we can expect to be, given the current circumstances.”

“Angel,” Antonia moans drunkenly, whipping herself around the axis of rotation that Beecher constitutes, and nearly crashes into Lady Archstone. Lord Archstone drops his wife to lunge forward and catch Antonia as she scrabbles at her betrothed, who is too inebriated to help, and nearly drags him down on top of her.

“I think you should go home and sober up,” Lord Archstone says firmly.

“Gabe,” Beecher implores as they both return Antonia to an upright position. Lady Archstone tentatively lays a steadying hand on Antonia’s elbow, and she almost immediately turns into the touch like a cat seeking affection. She appears only moments away from bodily draping herself on Lady Archstone and rubbing their faces together.

“I know this is hard for you. It’s hard for us too, but people are beginning to notice,” Lord Archstone says under his breath.

“I’m sorry,” Beecher says, following Lord Archstone’s gaze around the party. “Shall I see you tomorrow?”

“Of course, Beez,” Lord Archstone says, softening slightly and allowing his hand to rest on Beecher’s for a moment, unseen by all but Antonia and Lady Archstone. Then Beecher manages to extricate Antonia from Lady Archstone and lead her off the dance floor and out of public view. A maid fetches their coats and Lady Crowley’s mother, and the butler calls for their coach and the staff helps Lady Crowley into the carriage with her mother, to be taken home and cared for.

“Antonia, what the devil is the matter with you? Embarrassing yourself, your family, and the Elzebs like that at the Archstone wedding! Completely improper for a woman of your standing, and a family like ours!” Lady Crowley’s mother, Dame Crowley, berates her as she sprawls out on the bench seat across the carriage.

“I’m too sad to be sober,” Antonia moans dramatically.

“I know you’re upset your wedding comes after the Archstones’, but that’s no justification for the scene you just made at a very nice society function!” Dame Crowley hisses. Antonia nearly raises an objection, to clarify that she’s not sad because of the _timing _of her wedding, but both Aziraphale’s and Beecher’s voices chime in her head and she manages to keep her mouth shut. At home at the Crowley estate, Antonia’s maid takes over her care and changes her into her nightclothes, tucking her in bed and locking the bedroom door from the outside.

Meanwhile, at the slowly-dying celebration of the Archstones’ wedding, Aziraphale and Gabriel are bidding goodbye to the last of their guests and the staff are beginning the laborious process of cleaning up the manor’s dining and ballrooms. The newlyweds retire upstairs to their freshly-prepared marriage chamber, Lord Archstone’s valet giving him a congratulatory wink as they pass. Lord Archstone returns it, puts a hand on Lady Archstone’s back to guide her through the door, and shuts it behind them.

They wait a moment to hear the fading footsteps of the valet before relaxing. “Gabriel, be a dear and get me _out of this corset,” _Aziraphale groans, reaching in vain to try to undo the pearls down her back. Gabriel pulls off his gloves with his teeth and obliges, freeing his wife of her dress with no elegance but an admirable efficiency. Aziraphale strips off her petticoats and chemise and reaches behind herself with practice to loosen the laces of her corset enough to pop the busk open. Within moments, she stands naked in front of Gabriel without seduction or tact. She tips her head towards him, gesturing for him to take the pins out of her hair. He complies again, going so far as to vigorously rub Aziraphale’s scalp once all her pinned curls are loosed. She groans with relief and delight, going lax under the massage.

Gabriel stops massaging her hair after a little while, then wordlessly strips out of his own wedding outfit and retrieves his nightshirt. He stops and looks at Aziraphale.

“Should we—” he asks, making an aborted gesture to the bed. Aziraphale is still standing naked in the center of the room, her garments pooled around her feet.

“I, er, well, I wasn’t sure if you’d—it’s what’s expected on a wedding night—I didn’t know, but, oh—that is to say, no.” Aziraphale eventually concludes, her cheeks red.

“Right, my thoughts exactly,” Gabriel says with a brusque nod, pulling his nightshirt over his head. “I’m not attracted to you at all,” he says. “Please don’t take that as an insult.”

“I’m not attracted to you at all either,” Aziraphale says, still blushing as she retrieves her nightgown. “The dangly bits never appealed to me.”

Gabriel gives a bark of laughter, turning the covers down to get into bed. “The wet and squishy bits aren’t my cup of tea.”

“Perfect. Then we’ll just learn to share a bed here, completely not attracted to each other, just as friends doing each other a favor. For the rest of our lives. Whilst everyone else thinks we’re madly in love and copulating nightly.” Aziraphale says, voice growing bleaker as she keeps talking, staring at the ceiling of the bedroom with her hands on her abdomen. Gabriel is silent on the other side of the bed, also staring at the ceiling.

“Have we made a horrible mistake?” he asks, right as Aziraphale ponders,

“Have we hurt our lovers?”

They turn to look at each other, finding identical stricken looks on their faces. 

“No, they understand, we all discussed this beforehand,” Gabriel says, ever the rationalist. “We’ll see them tomorrow, spend the whole day with them. You and Antonia can have the guest suite.”

Aziraphale nods. “I hope Antonia is alright. She was so very drunk.”

“She’ll be alright. You can take care of her tomorrow,” Gabriel says with a knowing grin.

“Go to sleep, you lecher. Dream of your gentleman,” Aziraphale grins back at him, and then they both roll over to go to bed.


End file.
